Pie Crusts
by theAkuRokuFaNaTiC
Summary: Late Father's Day One-Shot. Had he been warned that there was going to be a large, neon-colored pie directly in front of his sleep-ridden and glasses-less blurry line of vision the moment he opened his eyes that morning, Berwald might not have offered a shout of surprise that sounded more like a pre-pubescent boy imitating goat calls. Sufin and Sealand. Human names used.


**A.N.: I wanted to make something for Father's Day, so this is my week-late contribution! I absolutely _adore _Sweden and Finland, and I think that they'd make wonderful parents to sweet Sealand. I don't own Hetalia (props to Hima-papa), but I'd love to hear your feedback, so reviews are always welcome! I hope you guys enjoy!**

**(Note: Any and all facts and dates about the holidays mentioned in this piece are all from Google; I do not claim to know anything about Scandinavian holidays and dishes, but I'd love to learn~)**

Had he been warned that there was going to be a large, neon-colored pie directly in front of his sleep-ridden and glasses-less blurry line of vision the moment he opened his eyes that morning, Berwald might not have offered a shout of surprise that sounded more like a pre-pubescent boy imitating goat calls. As it was, no heads-up was given, and Tino and Peter both blinked a few times after they heard the noise that had erupted from the Swede.

It took a few minutes to calm Peter down from his laughing fit, and Tino had to hide his giggles under a number of fake coughs. It was incredibly thoughtful on the Finn's part, but Berwald could see the look written on the former's face; the sound the taller man gave was both embarrassing and completely out-of-character.

Once everything _did_ settle down, however, Berwald finally got a good look at the offending object that had frightened him so awfully.

It was a pie (or, judging by its appearance, it most closely resembled a pie). And it was lime green. The crust was, that is. The inside seemed to be cherry, but Berwald wasn't going to make any definitive guesses; he had only tried cherry pie a few times before. The Swede allowed his eyes to settle on the dessert for a bit longer, then he looked up at Tino, who was still sporting a small smile, a final remnant of the screaming fit. Of course, if the smile hadn't been caused by Berwald's alarmed cry, and if the preceding incident hadn't been so embarrassing at Berwald's expense, the Finn's face would be absolutely adorable (and it was, in hindsight; and it was also stunning, and breathtaking, and completely beautiful - because those were all adjectives that could describe Tino at any given moment).

"M'y I 'sk-" Berwald started but stopped as soon as his son's little hand shot in the air. It was a sweet gesture of asking permission to interject, though Berwald figured that Peter would have spoken, even without a small nod from his father.

"It's for Father's Day!" the little boy announced happily, turning to Tino. "It was Mum's idea!"

"I know it's early, but in England, Father's Day is in June, and since Peter is _technically _English," Tino used 'technically' very loosely but also completely carefully, so as to avoid a glare from the child (it worked), "I thought it would be nice if we could celebrate Father's Day for you somewhere in-between!"

Berwald understood that, and he positively adored the idea, because Peter was so excited about it, and Tino was nervously explaining himself and moving his hands so quickly that the Swede occasionally lost his focus on the Finn's gestures and instead turned his attention to Tino's face (a light blush dusted his pale cheeks, because he was apparently afraid Berwald would hate the idea - he was so wrong).

Berwald hadn't really expected a Father's Day, mostly because their "family" (it was still on confusing grounds sometimes, he thought), was still so new and unaccustomed to this sort of thing. It was odd to say that Berwald was a father, and Tino was a mother, and Peter was a son - because, naturally, Berwald was not a father, and Tino was clearly not a mother, and Peter was not either of theirs, not biologically. But they tried to adjust to the whole thing, and Berwald quickly _felt _like a father, and Peter and Tino _seemed_ happy enough. Though, as years of growing accustomed to and experiencing Tino and every facet of Tino's personality, it was aggravatingly and enticingly impossible to completely understand everything that Tino felt.

But maybe this was Tino's way of solidifying their status as a nuclear family. Of course, none of that answered the question as to why there was a green pie still sitting on the edge of Berwald's bed. The tall man gave the treat one more questionable look before turning back to Tino.

"Th'nk y' b'th," Berwald managed, finding it harder to speak than normal. And he was pretty awful at speaking to begin with. "B't th'..." He gestured to the pie, head at a tilt and eyes still squinted, and Tino's face lit up.

"I'm glad you asked! You see, we were going to make you a cake, but then we didn't have any cake mix, and we wanted to do Father's Day _today_, because we didn't want to wait any longer. And I didn't want to have to go out and buy a cake mix, because then you'd be suspicious. So then I thought, 'Why not _make _a cake?'." At this point, Berwald reached over to his bedside table and fumbled for his glasses, finding them with a surprising ease that he hadn't expected. Tino continued, "I was going to make an apple crumb cake, because I think you like those. So I started on that, but then we didn't have any eggs, because Peter loves eggs for breakfast. You can't make a cake without eggs! So that one was out.

"But, we had flour and salt and water, so I said, 'I'll just make a pie!' You can imagine how that went, because I'm pretty bad at making pies. I mean, I'm not _too _bad; I'm better than England, anyway." Berwald slipped his glasses onto his face, taking in the pie with a new-found sight that he almost wished he hadn't obtained. It was _very _green, and it was very early, and unnaturally green food in the morning never quite sat well with the Swede. Tino didn't bother to watch the taller man scrutinize the dessert. "Well, I started on it, the pie, that is, and it was actually pretty easy!

"But the color was just sort of bland, like a pair of khaki pants. And I like khaki, but I don't _love _it, so I figured, 'I'll just put food coloring in there!' I was going to make the crust blue, and put lemon filling on the inside, but we only had cherry! Then, I didn't want to leave the crust bland, because it would almost look like Denmark's flag! And I couldn't make the crust blue, because it would look like Norway or Iceland! So I made it green. Don't ask why, because I don't even know why. You know, now that I look at it, it kind of reminds me of Italy's flag..."

Tino paused, and Berwald figured that meant he was done with his story. It certainly was a mouth-full, and it only made more prominent the fact that Tino could talk for hours, while the Swede could hardly get out a complete sentence before losing the ability to continue a conversation.

This truth was disheartening at times, but comforting at others. Berwald fought a smile as he looked at Tino's excited face but ultimately lost and only smiled more when the Finn cocked his head in confusion.

"What is it? Do you not like cherry? I mean, I know lemon's your favorite, but cherry's pretty good, too! It's Peter's favorite!" Violet eyes were soft and wide with worry, and a pang of guilt hit Berwald in the chest as he realized that his facial expression had been the cause of the former's concern. Behind Tino, Peter nodded enthusiastically.

But, Berwald reasoned with himself, he didn't care much for lemon, either. He had only had either flavor when Alfred would bring them in for a meeting (or Arthur would, but the Swede did not feel like testing the advancements of medicine and instead opted against eating the Brit's desserts), and he had enjoyed both, but he didn't love either of the fruit-flavored pies.

Refusing to say this, and instead deciding that cherry pie would be his favorite from now on, Berwald shook his head. "I l'ke ch'rry j'st f'ne," he finally said, turning his attention to the door as Hanatamago came strolling in. The white dog wriggled as she walked, trying to dislodge a bandanna that had been fastened around her neck. It wasn't tight (in fact, it was almost falling off her), but she hated anything on her that wasn't her own fur. Berwald raised an eyebrow as he bent down to pick the dog up. He loosened the bandanna and noticed that there was a large print on the fabric.

'HAPPY FATHER'S DAY'

As soon as Berwald had gotten a rudimentary look at the bandanna, Hanatamago wrestled herself from Berwald's lax grip and hopped down from the bed. The jump was a rather far jump for her, but the distance didn't seem to bother the small animal. Landing with as much grace as could be expected from a tiny puffball (as Peter had so delicately called her when he first met the dog), Hanatamago circled her master's legs a few times, seeming to relish in the way that Tino tried very hard to keep his balance. He was after all, still holding the oddly-colored pie, and his grip on the dessert was very tight (most likely tighter than need be). His knuckles were white on the pie tin, but not a painful sort of white. It was mostly a strong grip.

Once Hanatamago had decided that Tino was confident enough in his hold of the pie, and that he most certainly was _not _going to drop it, the dog retreated from Berwald's bedroom and scurried into another room. Berwald would guess that she had probably darted for the kitchen, perhaps hoping that there was leftover pie in there.

The Swede watched her leave, then gave another curious look to the piece of fabric in his hands. This time, the colors were blue and yellow; still, he wasn't quite sure as to why he had it.

A giggle came from Tino's direction; the Finn had obviously picked up on Berwald's confusion. "Sorry, sorry; Peter wanted Hanatamago to get you a gift, too. This was the best we could think of on such short notice. You can't really do much with it, but-"

"'ll H'ng 't 'n m' w'dsh'd."

The Finn's eyes widened once more, and Berwald was once again struck by how amazingly and effortlessly captivating those eyes were. "In your shed? But that's your favorite place to be...Berwald..." He trailed off, and Berwald couldn't be sure if it was because Tino didn't know what to say next or if he was too nervous to continue.

"I l've m' f'm'ly m're th'n a sh'd. S' th'y sh'ld b' th're w'th 't, hmm?"

Peter didn't seem to understand that this statement was remarkably bold for Berwald, nor did he seem to acknowledge that Tino was fighting an incredibly red blush (because, despite Berwald's insistence that they do so, Tino still found it odd to say that the three of them made a family - but when Berwald _did _say it, it was wonderful and altogether so natural that the Finn wondered why he didn't say it more often); Peter _did_ comprehend, however, that his dad enjoyed his gift and wanted to put it in his woodshed. This understanding caused the English boy to hop onto his father's bed. "Say, Dad, since we got you such a _great _gift, and my birthday's in September, you should probably start planning it now, don't you think?"

Tino made a noise of disapproval, shooting a quick, cutting glance at Peter; immediately, the boy retracted, realizing then that the claims that the Finn could kill with one look could, in fact, be quite plausible.

Berwald glanced up from his new bandanna and watched Tino and Peter communicate with their eyes.

There was something about the way that Tino had his arms at his hips, bending down toward Peter's level and looking _so _parental; and there was something about Peter's sheepish face that still could not hide the mischievous undertones, and he just looked like a _kid_ - Berwald felt his heart clench, then grow and warm and fly up to his throat. He knew the organ had done so, because he couldn't find any power in himself to say anything, even if he wanted to. Not that this was a completely foreign complication; he had just never been glad that it had happened.

This hindrance did not go unnoticed by the other two people in the room. In an instant, Tino was at his side, his worried look once again in full display. "Is something wrong? I thought you said that you liked the gifts."

The Swede shook his head, hoping that his momentary amnesia of speech would soon leave him. He raised his hand in the air as an attempt to buy himself more time (and, also, to keep Tino from exploding into another fit of nervous rambles). After a few tense moments, in which Berwald quietly tested clearing his throat and humming softly (hoping that this action didn't add more to his already-embarrassing morning), he smiled.

"N', I r'lly l've 't. 'll h'ng 't 'p t'm'rr'w. 'nd h've th' pie n'w." He wasn't really all that hungry, and he doubted that Tino was, but Peter was a bottomless pit of a boy, and he'd eat any bit of the dessert that his mother or father left behind.

Parents...yes, Berwald had always considered himself to be Peter's father, and he hoped that Tino didn't mind too much that the English boy refused to call the Finn anything but "mum." Tino seemed to take everything in great stride, though, and he even seemed to enjoy it. And he was _so _good at putting Peter to bed and making him eat his vegetables and reading him stories and fixing the boy's broken toy cars and trucks and teaching him new Finnish phrases and showing Peter how to make a weapon out of office supplies and singing lullabies, and Tino was essentially perfect at everything. He was warm and funny and witty but most especially stubborn, and also brave and determined; he grit his teeth and wrung his hands and laughed nervously and loved completely.

Tino was everything Berwald lacked.

And Berwald hoped he sometimes did the same for Tino. He hoped that he was as diverse and integral and unpredictable as Tino was. Tino was just _there_. He made up a room and filled it, but he could also simply walk in and finish it.

And Peter. Peter was brash and loud and impatient and as stubborn as Tino, if not worse; he was sometimes rude and always curious and never satisfied with anything. Peter was a handful of a child that squirmed and kicked and pushed himself into everything. But the way Tino handled him would have made anyone think that the kid was made of spun sugar. He curled into Tino when they read together, he helped in the preparation of dinner (though, the two of them in the same kitchen was kind of a give-away to an emergency, Berwald had soon learned), he learned how to listen to others without interjecting his own thoughts, and he learned how to speak without coming off too strong.

And Berwald could only pray that he was as good a parent. He hoped that he taught Peter things like woodworking and kindness and generosity and building and courtesy. He wanted nothing more than to look at his son, _their _son, and see a bit of himself amidst the swirling being that was Tino's influence.

Tino glanced at the pie, still a lime green tint, and grinned. "Alright. Peter, do you mind going to the kitchen and getting some plates and forks? Oh, and napkins! Also, a glass of milk if you're thirsty; but not too big a glass. Mmm, maybe I should get it for you..." The Finn turned his head to face Berwald. "Happy Father's Day, Sweden."

That was it. That was the intimacy that gave way to thousands of years together. Wars and recessions and sporting events and prosperous times and political decisions and stupid fights and delicate reunions and tentative relationships. All that, and they defied odds by not hating each other, nor by forgetting every hurt feeling and betrayal. Sweden had become bolder, but not quite as bold as saying that Finland was his wife without even getting the "okay"; Finland had simmered, but had become even more intense than he had been when he had entangled himself in wars. Both had become different but still fundamentally the same - they had merely transposed their personalities into different places.

But Sweden's feelings for Finland had never changed. He was still impossibly and profoundly in love with the smaller blonde, and perhaps his love for Finland had only intensified, and perhaps it was always this back-breakingly powerful. Whatever it was, it was the most wonderfully kind of unbearable.

And maybe Finland hadn't always felt the same way. He was, after all, entitled to his own feelings, and Sweden wasn't as considerate then as he was now. But the way Finland smiled and laughed so freely and loved Sealand and hopefully Sweden was promising enough.

And those two had certainly been through a lot. And they had said words that could never be taken back, and Sweden hadn't said things that he wished for all the worlds that he could have said; but there was no use in worrying about it.

Because the three of them were a family now.

A blush settled on the Swede's face as Tino gave him a quick peck to the cheek. "Th'nks." He allowed himself to be led to the kitchen, where Peter was already trying to locate a large knife to cut the dessert with. Tino panicked, and Peter pouted, and Berwald frowned. They were never going to be the traditional sort of family. Berwald was too quiet, and Tino was too concerned, and Peter was too forward. They all came from different places and barely shared the same interests at all.

But looking at the two people in front of him - one with violet eyes that could heal someone with their softness and obliterate another with their strength - and one with dancing blue eyes that questioned everything and hardly understood a thing yet displayed such confidence that it was hard to tell at all - Sweden knew that his family was as impossibly dysfunctional as a train being driven on the ocean and as complete as that ocean connecting to another.


End file.
